Concert

She leaned to one o’clock
At the apex of the silver ladder,
And painted grey with the small brush
Along the antique green.

It rained and unrained, fat and soft,
But dry under the awning,
In black overalls and white smock,
Her wife trim and black clad herself,

They licked neat paint
Like washing cats
In firm and steady rows
Upon the lead lights

And glazing bars,
The architraves and lean mullions,
To cover and revive the little grace
And lucid lines of that flower shop.